Lessons
by LizBee
Summary: Donleavy's interest in Russell extends beyond the professional


**Title**: Lessons  
**Author**: LizBee  
**Summary**: Donleavy's interest in Russell stretches beyond the professional.  
**Warnings**: L-l-lesbians!  
**Fandom**: Mary Russell (Sherlock Holmes)  
**Spoilers**: _The Beekeeper's Apprentice_  
**Disclaimer**: Russell is the property of Laurie R. King. Holmes is public domain, although it's probably only fair to name-check Arthur Conan Doyle.  
**Notes**: So Branwyn said, "Write some Russell/Donleavy". And I didn't argue. Secretly, I think this really happened in the books. And I have the tinhat to prove it.

**Lessons**  
by Lizbee

I was unsurprised, but not displeased, when my maths tutor began to take a particular interest in my studies. Unsurprised because I was one of the few students who regarded her without fear; not displeased, because she was a brilliant woman with a sharp mind that I yearned to understand.

Still. It came as a complete shock when, towards the end of a particularly difficult session in her study, she kissed me.

I was still blinking in amazement when she drew away and said, in a perfectly normal tone, "Please don't think I'll make allowances for carelessness, or show the slightest bit of tolerance for sloppy work. I have very high expectations for you, Miss Russell."

"No," I said, feeling astonishingly stupid, "I wouldn't expect anything less."

She kissed me again, winding her hand through my hair and holding me against her.

In the weeks that followed, her lessons became rather more diverse, and I proved a quick student. It was an affair conducted in the utmost of secrecy, for not a hint of scandal had ever touched Miss Donleavy, and I had no desire to bring her down. Still, there were moments when I would find myself wondering if there had been other students, other girls before me, and I hated and envied those women all at once.

She never discussed her past, and rarely permitted questions. I was insatiably curious, a fact that didn't escape her. Once, while she pulled my stockings off and delivered a lecture on an esoteric branch of theoretical mathematics, I let my mind drift and considered the curious mixture of accents in her voice. The southern countryside mingled with London, but there was a trace of America here and there.

I regretted my inattention in the tutorial later; but then, she did warn me that she wouldn't play favourites.

There were times when the intensity of her attention scared me. Not that she was possessive -- indeed, she seemed to derive great delight in encouraging certain young men in their interest, and teased me when I failed to reciprocate -- but because I sometimes thought she could peel me back, layer by layer, seeing everything I preferred to conceal. It was almost a relief when the term ended, and I returned to Sussex, and Holmes.

I never mentioned her in front of him, although she had wormed his name and a few sparse details of our acquaintance out of me. I had dismissed him as little more than a neighbour, and hoped that for once, her perceptive eyes would overlook the truth.

In any case, there was no need for elaborate deception; life with Holmes, I found, was simply so different from the time I spent with Patricia that it might have been another girl being seduced by her tutor. She wrote to me once, mentioning that she was attending to business in London, inviting me to join her. That letter was in my pocket when I arrived at Holmes's cottage and entered the Simpson case. When we returned from that expedition, I found the letter still safely in my discarded shirt. My flat mood lifted somewhat; I sent a reply, told a series of lies, and was on my way to London four days later.

I attempted to read on the train, but found the promise of her presence too distracting. Instead, I stared at the passing countryside and wondered if Mrs Simpson would have been so happy to let me spend time with her little daughter, had she known of my Sapphic tendencies. A depressing thought, followed by a worse one: sooner or later, if this was to continue, I should have to tell Holmes. Or have him find out some other way.

My grey mood descended once more. I felt better on seeing Patricia again, but she too was out of sorts. We played chess, and I found her as ruthless a strategist as Holmes. In the bedroom, she approached me with an unprecedented ferocity, and I returned to Sussex three days later bearing a tell-tale set of bruises and scratches that I prayed Holmes would never see.

I returned to Oxford a few days later. Patricia's tutorials were more demanding than ever, and she seemed to take particular delight in finding the flaws in my ideas. She gave no sign of wanting to see me otherwise. I told myself that I didn't mind, that she represented more complications than I was prepared to deal with, that I was not the silly kind of girl who would mope outside her rooms in hope of a few crumbs of attention. I spent more time than ever in the Bodleian, and even permitted a young man from my Greek class to dine with me once.

It was late October when she thawed again: I was leaving a tutorial when she requested a moment of time. I almost refused: I'd planned to spend a couple of hours in the Bodleian before my next lecture. But something in her voice made me pause, and this time, I wasn't surprised when her iron grip closed around my wrist and she drew me in close.

I didn't get to the library, and I was quite scandalously dishevelled when I arrived at my lecture. And I was worried, for Patricia was not normally given to spontaneous gestures.

It was another week before I had a chance to speak with her, and when we finally had a few moments of privacy, she wasn't interested in speech. I was oddly hurt, and determined not to show it, but the next time she made an overture, I ignored it.

She looked almost relieved, and I walked away with the unhappy realisation that the affair was over, and I still wasn't sure of what I'd gained or lost. If anything.

Curiously enough, it was in the weeks that followed that we re-established the rapport of our earlier relationship. She drove me harder than ever, but her occasional praise suggested that my work was paying off. Once, I surprised her, although that paled in comparison with the many times she found fault with my work and sent me away to start again.

It was on one such occasion, on a cold, miserable day in December, that she finally spoke to me. I had stayed an extra day in Oxford at her request, given a presentation in our tutorial. She ripped it to shreds, leaving me to reassemble my arguments. With my fellow pupils gone, she made me a cup of tea and presented me with a slim book.

"What's this?" I asked.

"You'll find it relevant," was all she said.

It was a series of theoretical exercises, a rather neat example of base eight mathematics. She watched me, a half-smile on her face, as I studied them. I opened the book to the title page and raised my eyebrows.

"Yes," she said. "A curious coincidence, is it not?"

"Quite. I hadn't realised he'd written in such esoteric areas."

"Oh, yes. He was a genius, they say. Shockingly under-appreciated in his field." She took her seat. "I don't believe I've ever told you how much ... how much I came to appreciate your company, Mary."

I kept my eyes on the exercises. "You never needed to," I said. My throat felt very thick.

"I am sorry that it came to an end."

She waited for a response, but I couldn't speak. Not of that. I closed the books, got to my feet and said, "I must go, if I'm to rewrite this essay." She nodded, and watched me leave. Her expression was unreadable, except for the unnerving determination in her eyes.

I walked out into the cold rain, and I didn't look back.

end


End file.
